


bloodletting

by Wagandea



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Canon - Manga, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark, Disturbing Themes, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, M/M, Master/Servant, POV Sebastian Michaelis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2020-02-26 10:43:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18715432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wagandea/pseuds/Wagandea
Summary: The boy who is not Ciel Phantomhive is a particularly cruel master. Or: Sebastian is losing his appetite.





	bloodletting

**Author's Note:**

> "I loved you. I was a pentapod monster, but I loved you. I was despicable and brutal, and turpid, and everything. And there were times when I knew how you felt, and it was hell to know it, my little one, brave [Ciel Phantomhive]." Vladimir Nabokov, _Lolita._

**i.**

“Let me touch you.”

It isn’t an order, but the threat of one is ever lurking behind Ciel’s words. Even so, Sebastian must obey him. There is a way of making this thing easier to swallow, but the words still stick in his throat, _if I couldn’t do this much for my master--_

“You are not to move. You are not to touch me.” This is not a new request. He is demanding even in his inexperience, the fumblings of a young boy who is too curious for his own good and so confident as to steal an adult man into his bed with no thought spared to any consequences.

He is right, of course.

Sebastian cannot change the actions he is compelled to take, but he can frame the intent. Perhaps his master is not forcing his hand; perhaps Sebastian loves him even in _that way._  He can assign the context, make himself complicit in retrospect, _you wanted to touch him or you wanted him to touch you, that perfect young boy, you’re starving after all and if you can’t have his soul you can at least have this._

That is, somehow, more palatable than the truth: Sebastian does not _want_ to. The young master’s roaming hands leave cold pinpricks on his skin that sting like open wounds, and Sebastian lays very, very still.

 _"Disgusting,"_  Ciel spits, sounds equal parts venomous and curious when his palm rests to cup the front of Sebastian’s trousers. He realizes distantly, like recalling a far-off and unpleasant memory, that he is hard. Arousal is an unsatisfactory state, too fleeting and easily cured, and Sebastian has made a habit in his exceptionally long life of avoiding it unless sex proves a necessary solution for one of his problems. Ciel sits back on his knees, evidently dissatisfied with the lack of an adequate response to his cruelty.

“Sebastian. Look at me.” He is commanding, and devastatingly beautiful. He is--

A child. A shadow of something sick coils around the gnawing hunger he’s lived with since forging this contract. Ciel’s clever fingers find the buttons of his trousers, and looking at him feels like lying. Sebastian is losing his appetite.

 

**ii.**

Sebastian is aware, tangentially, of the things which occurred in the cage and on the altar in the weeks prior to his arrival. He knows intimately enough of the history of human cruelty for this; and it was he who carefully bathed the boy’s aching muscles after, bandaged up the cuts and laid his gloved hands over the bruises on his young master’s thighs and hips and wrists.

There is a not inconsiderable amount of concern after recent events that his touch is no longer _safe_ ; it is fortunate then that Ciel has never ordered Sebastian to touch _him,_  and continues to require his presence in bed even on the nights his hands don’t wander. Sebastian laid next to him all buttoned up, his most loyal and faithful. Sebastian must never lie to him, never harm him, never leave his side. He imagines the young master must find this comforting, and he must imagine further: Must believe this is _in Ciel’s best interests._

Sebastian gives him far more than any human master of a demon ought to be permitted. Anything that can be asked, anything--

There are only so many cups of earl grey, only so many humans to be led to slaughter. Sebastian can only do this much to ease his master’s pain, and when he finds he has nothing left to offer he will give Ciel his body, too. This is not part of their contract; but it is what is owed, regardless.

(A demon’s contract works like this: He elects to obey his master’s commands in pursuit of fulfilling his master’s wish, the price of the soul. There is an understanding between each party, no matter the frivolous words of ownership applied to such a relationship; this is a transaction and nothing more. A demon is never caged, nor is he collared. The aesthetics of the thing is simply to soften it, make it more palatable. A demon has many masters through his life, and never answers to any of them.

Sebastian’s master has called him to his bedside again tonight. He will lay very, very still, and when Ciel touches him with too much purpose for a boy of thirteen, Sebastian will feel the uncomfortable and unfamiliar state of being owned.)

 

**iii.**

This is how it happens:

Sebastian’s master does not like being touched, but he never expressly forbids it (except _that one time_ ). He has his fun, and while Sebastian is buttoning himself back up on the other side of the bed, Ciel presses his face into a pillow, his back to Sebastian, and strokes himself with clumsy, barely perceptible movements.

A butler should not see his master so. Sebastian has promised to remain at Ciel’s side at all times. _Stay with me, until I fall asleep._  The scene repeats too many times to count. Sebastian is not permitted to excuse himself, and his master’s body shakes under the blankets.

He can do nothing further to assist; or at the very least, nothing that Ciel has asked for and nothing that Sebastian is comfortable with. Well, Sebastian leaves his comfort at the bedroom door, and tonight he strips off his gloves. Tonight, Ciel has not touched him.

He is so very quiet. Such an intimate moment for Sebastian to be intruding on, so fragile it might break at the slightest shift in the room. Sometimes, on these nights, Sebastian’s thoughts wander somewhere darker and deeper, ideas that feel as though they’re borrowed from someone else, anyone but him. The truth: Sebastian has never wanted this, has never considered the perhaps inevitable physicality of their relationship with anything but _distaste._

He wonders if Ciel does this still when Sebastian is not in the room. Wonders if he thinks of Sebastian even so, wonders if he thinks of Sebastian _now._

 _"No."_  The faintest breath into the pillow, his master sounding near stricken. Sebastian has not touched him, but his fingers have curled around the hem of Ciel’s nightshirt and perhaps that is enough for this. His back tenses like a spring, but he does not cease touching himself even so. How strange humans are.

“You’re going to soil your nightshirt, my lord.” Perfectly appropriate, cool and unaffected, as though there’s nothing untoward about this. There was no reason for Sebastian to remove his gloves. “Please, allow me.”

His young master is nothing if not stubborn. Ciel curls in on himself, breaths panicked, wound so tight he might break. Sebastian cannot see his face, it cannot be helped. He draws two fingers, lightly, up and down the bony protrusion of Ciel’s spine; and feels his young master fall apart underneath.

The act is half-hearted at best, a curiosity, scraps of kindness Ciel has not been afforded by anyone else. Ciel _must_ know this, must know Sebastian has never wanted--

“ _Sebastian.”_ Whispered into the pillow perhaps, a word tormented and unbidden, or else Sebastian might have imagined it entirely. He presses his hand flat against Ciel’s back, feels him shake in the uneasy aftermath of his orgasm.

“Ah, there you’ve gone and dirtied it. Please,” he repeats, slow and patient, “allow me.”

 _"Get out."_  Sharp and vicious, like a slap across the face. Something else echoes in Sebastian’s head, the same panicked young boy, _don’t touch me do not touch me--_

A butler who has to receive his orders twice is not worth his salt. Still, it is a shame. He smiles when he rises from the bed, and leaves his gloves on the pillow. “Very good, my lord. I will leave you for tonight.”

For the first time in weeks, Sebastian feels the hunger gnaw at him.

 

**iv.**

Maybe hunger isn’t the right word. More than anything Sebastian feels empty, hollowed out, like he’s had organs removed; insides scooped out and the outsides stitched neatly back up again. _Never lie to me. Never disobey me. Never betray me._ Yes, his master has mutilated him nicely, but it was Sebastian who put the knife in his hand.

( _Ciel is on the altar, and his master is holding the knife, crying and shaking on the stone floor. He is not Earl Ciel Phantomhive yet, but he will be. Sebastian is not Sebastian yet, but he will be. It’s a difficult thing to do, scooping out someone’s insides, taking things that aren’t yours. He is soft, and he is young, and his precious brother is dead. Humans are such pitiful creatures, and the demon almost, almost feels bad for his unexpected little master._

_Ciel Phantomhive’s soul leaves an astringent aftertaste on his tongue, and his insides are so very soft when Sebastian claws the ring from his intestines. He presses it carefully into his master’s palm, a gift, as though it is a token of his affection. The brother’s soul was bitter, gone bad underneath, like a fruit that rots from the inside. The boy who will be Ciel Phantomhive will rot from the outside; Sebastian is confident enough in this to accept the terms of their contract and later, much later, will wonder if the risk is really worth sinking his teeth into. If he is content not to cut into the fruit, he need never find out if it has rotted at all.)_

Perhaps it’s he who was the fool.

His master does not call Sebastian to his bedside for two weeks, and sleeps so little in that amount of time that on three separate occasions he calls for coffee rather than tea. The echo of his nightmares tastes astringent on Sebastian’s tongue, leaves him exhausted by association. They perform equally poorly for those short weeks, in sync even when they aren’t. Sebastian forgets to dust inside the china cabinets and Ciel falls asleep through his morning lessons.

The servants never ask one way or another, and in the middle of the night Sebastian finds himself neither reaching nor reached for. (There is a word for this feeling--useless, powerless, beside himself. Sebastian is learning much about himself in service of this contract, and nothing of it is useful or pleasant.)

In the end he returns to his own sparse chambers, far enough away from his master’s that were it not for the contract mark, he wouldn’t be able to hear the crying.

 

**v.**

In the dream Sebastian doesn’t have, Ciel would say this: _"S_ _tay with me. Until I fall asleep.”_ Like every night before except when it isn’t. In the dream Sebastian doesn’t have, the cold touch of his hands would not be so forceful as a threat. Sebastian could enjoy himself, in this dream, wake half hard without the messy distaste that follows, the barest hint of guilt or concern. He could bring himself to enjoy being touched and to touch in return.

These are the dreams he is not permitted to have. Sebastian has never had Ciel’s best interests at heart, but it is the role he has fallen into unwittingly regardless.

(In the dream Sebastian does have, Ciel doesn’t say anything at all. The tears streaming down his master’s face sting beautifully when they drip into his wounds. Sebastian’s been opened up, he’s on the altar, he’s swallowed something he shouldn’t have.

The boy who is not Ciel Phantomhive is prettiest with blood splattered all across his front, prettiest with a knife in his hands, prettiest when he’s wrist-deep in Sebastian’s abdomen.

He’s looking for something but doesn’t want to take it, he’s scooping out his insides and putting them back all wrong, he’s hollowed Sebastian out. _"M_ _y master, my young master,”_ he breathes, and wakes half hard with the boy’s body on top of his own. He’s grown impatient with their song and dance these last weeks, evidently, and takes matters into his own hands in the quiet darkness of Sebastian’s room.

“ _I told you to stay with me,”_ he levels like an accusation, and his nails dig vindictively into Sebastian’s sides. His hands are warm, and too soft. When he grinds his hips down on Sebastian’s it feels like a reprimand, a slap on the wrist.

“ _Apologies, my lord."_ He’s breathless, it catches in his throat like he’s swallowed something he shouldn’t have. Sebastian coughs up blood and the red pinpricks are so very pretty on the stark white of Ciel’s nightshirt. He keeps the ring in his mouth anyway, tucked under his tongue like a secret, or maybe he just swallows and coughs it up again, it doesn’t matter.

He wakes half hard and alone, and when Sebastian touches himself efficiently and methodically under the blankets, he doesn’t say anything at all.)

 

**vi.**

“Stay here. Lay down on the bed, face toward the door, and don’t move.” Sebastian’s master does not look at him when he is issuing such orders, and the specificity and harshness of it plants a seed of doubt whether this thing between them has given at all; perhaps his master expects to simply shut the door on this too, resume exactly where he left off before those ill-advised attempts at playing doctor with a servant. The list of things Sebastian is not to speak of is getting _extensive._

“Shall I keep my clothes on, master?” Feigned ignorance, or feigned indifference. Sebastian will do anything he is asked, and this is less distaste than curiosity, _what will you do, what will you ask of me?_ This is what he does, pushes and then pulls back just enough that if Ciel wants for something he must stretch his hand out that much further.

His master has not taken kindly to the needling as of late, and so curiosity turns into provocation. Sebastian does not want to lay with him, but he _wants,_ he… he’s starving, or thinks he _ought_ to be starving.

And when Ciel does not deign such pettiness with an answer, Sebastian does as he is told. He removes his shoes, and his coat, but he’s still all buttoned up when the mattress dips under his weight.

“I had a dream about you.” His master’s voice shakes faintly, but his back is stiff and taut when after a few moments, he shifts to lay against Sebastian.

“Ah,” Sebastian sighs. They’ll stay like this until morning, he imagines, pressed back to back, never quite touching, never meeting eye to eye. The sensation of _distaste_ wells up under Sebastian’s skin, though he can’t say exactly why. “I _had_ hoped I would never become the subject of your nightmares, young master. That seems rather counterproductive, don’t you think?”

“Yes, I suppose so.” There is of course the possibility that it wasn’t _that_ sort of dream. Does he think of Sebastian even so, in his most private moments? Ciel exhales and it moves his body, too. _I had a dream about you._ Sebastian has not asked, nor has Ciel seen fit to share, the exact content of the nightmares. Sebastian knows enough. Ciel must be in the cage, or else on the altar. It’s catching. “I was trying to kill you. Or perhaps you were already dead.”

“A good dream then,” Sebastian says dryly, and his master makes a sound but the disapproval must catch in his throat. _Sebastian_ has had a good dream. “May I ask how you did it, my lord?”

Ciel’s breath stutters in a way too telling, too obscene. This is not _fun_ for either of them and Sebastian wants, he _wants._ Distaste and discomfort lie hot under his skin, and Ciel’s back feels cool through his nightshirt. “You were on the altar, you’d swallowed...”

Swallowed something he shouldn’t have and been hollowed out in return. _I had a dream about you._  For one long and disquieting moment, Sebastian thinks his master might _cry._  It’s unbecoming, inelegant. “The knife, then. Certainly I couldn’t be killed by anything so--”

“I did _not_ order you to comfort me, Sebastian.” And there he is, the harsh tone and temper of his voice; but Ciel asserting ownership, putting Sebastian in his place, is no longer simply an amusement. “Do not bother me with such nonsense again.”

“Certainly. As your servant, I have spoken out of turn. Please, punish me as you see fit.”

The hard line of his back is tense, unrelenting, and when he shivers like that-- “You’d like that.” Ciel’s tone is darker than the situation at hand affords, or maybe they’re just starting to scratch the surface.

“You are my master.” Too soft, too soft, uncharacteristically so. An echo: _My master, my young master._ When did he acquire a _taste_ for this? “I endeavour to appreciate everything that you see fit to offer me.”

“I wouldn’t even expect a de-fanged demon to act in a manner so revolting and pathetic,” Ciel informs him, and there’s a strange draw to his ire.

“Yes,” Sebastian agrees, and if he feels Ciel’s hips shifting under the blankets, soft muffled movements that are too indicative, well. It’s simply a matter of self-preservation.

 

**vii.**

Ciel is a child, and Sebastian would do well to remember this. Ciel is his master, and Sebastian would do well to remember this. Acknowledgement of both seems contradictory somehow, as though Ciel sprung into the world fully formed at thirteen ( _eleven, twelve_ ) and has neither future nor past waiting for him. He has not grown in the years Sebastian has known him, his hair still brushes the same spot at Sebastian’s collarbone when they stand close. The Ciel Phantomhive that _was_ before the contract is quite literally dead, and the Ciel Phantomhive after the contract will find his final resting spot between Sebastian’s teeth. How long will it be? A year, two?

By necessity he will have to be immortalized like this, beautiful and cruel and so very young. There is no sense in treating him like a child, _you’ll understand when you’re older_ and the rest of that useless drivel humans spoon feed their children when they can’t be certain their children will be fortunate enough to live that long.

The boy who is not Ciel Phantomhive is as well-aware of his situation as Sebastian is. And would it not be a waste, for both of their sakes, not to indulge in this much?

During the nights, Sebastian’s master continues to require his presence on the bed, though he has not resumed his curious exploration of Sebastian’s body. Nevertheless, the heavy atmosphere that permeates the bedroom promises that he _will,_  and Sebastian dutifully reminds himself to think often of his master’s wandering hands in those still hours. Any job worth doing requires a degree of preparation.

(Sebastian is in love with the boy.

This is not what is asked of him, and were it expressed he has no doubt his master would take full offence. If engaging sexually with Ciel leaves Sebastian feeling distasteful, then it must be true that engaging emotionally with Sebastian would leave Ciel feeling a similar revulsion, and _that_ simply will not do.

It is kinder, and safer, for him to assume the role of the perverted caretaker lusting after his young charge, than it is to play the pining servant taken advantage of himself.)

 

                    **viii.**

The fantasies Sebastian inflicts upon himself are abstract at best and disturbingly vibrant at worst.

 _Tell me about your dream,_  Sebastian says, and Ciel cuts the lines of their contract into his chest with the still and practised hands of a torturer. Sebastian’s tastes have always been singular and obscure. _Tell me about your dream,_  Sebastian says, and the boy kisses him. His mouth is cold, like he’s dying or already dead, and when Sebastian pulls away it’s with the silver and sapphire flash of a ring hidden under his tongue.

This is palatable. This is easy to swallow. The sacrifice, the altar, the knife, the ring, the fire.

Sometimes, in the dark hours long after his master has fallen asleep or else pretended to, he finds himself thinking of the rest. This is less palatable. _Look at me,_ Ciel demands, and Sebastian does, but looking at him no longer feels like lying, and the act no longer feels like a kindness.

In the fantasies Sebastian inflicts upon himself, Ciel does not recoil from his touch but Sebastian refrains from reaching for him anyway, too transfixed of the image of the boy touching himself to dare even the smallest movement. So, in that sense, his master still has Sebastian exactly where he wants him even in the privacy of Sebastian’s own thoughts; all buttoned up and laying very, very still.

 

                    **ix.**

He wakes half hard with the boy’s body on top of his own, thin knees on either side of his hips, nightshirt rucked up around his pale thighs. He could be mistaken for delicate in this light, and as though Sebastian’s twilight thoughts have been heard aloud, he feels fingers digging into his sides.

“I didn’t know you sleep, Sebastian.” His master is in a mood tonight, everything about him pointed and accusatory. It is somewhere past midnight, Sebastian has finished the cleaning and Ciel has long retired to bed. He looks out of place against the modest backdrop of Sebastian’s rooms and it is ridiculous enough that for a moment Sebastian wonders if he might still be dreaming.

“Recreationally, yes.” He attempts to sit up, but finds Ciel’s hands suddenly splayed flat across his chest. He holds Sebastian down for but a moment, and then allows his movement. They are chest to chest when Sebastian is permitted to sit up, and perhaps in any other time Ciel might have been _cute_ perched on his lap like this. “Young master, if you’re having trouble sleeping you need only call.”

Ciel makes a derisive noise with his tongue. Not another nightmare, then. Sebastian does not inquire further, already too privy to the whims of a spoiled pubescent boy. “Yes, yes, and you would fetch me milk and honey from the kitchen as though I’m a fussy child.”

He does not flinch away from Sebastian’s touch, but rather meets it defiantly, jaw set where Sebastian cups it too gently. He’s slipping, he’s making mistakes, coughing up things he tried to swallow long ago. _You are a fussy child,_ he thinks, and says “anything. I am at your disposal. Even in the middle of the night. Though there was no need to trek all the way down here.”

But Ciel is in a _mood_ tonight, after all, and nothing can ever be so easy with Sebastian’s young master. His face is cold and closed off, cut from marble. “I thought you might do something interesting if I surprised you. Don’t disappoint me.”

An open invitation placed in the wrong hands. Sebastian is--he does not want--

Ciel is commanding and devastatingly beautiful. Sebastian _loves_ this boy. It stings like a knife’s edge, and Sebastian wants, he wants, he _wants._ Perhaps the flash of pain crosses his face, perhaps Ciel notices it before Sebastian has their foreheads pressed together; and he’s breathing like he's just gone toe to toe with a reaper, his hands are balled into the back of Ciel’s nightshirt.

 _"Sebastian."_  Ciel is frightened, but not for himself. He is angry. He writhes about on Sebastian’s lap, in his arms, and at a point Sebastian becomes aware of his erection pressing into the skin of Sebastian’s stomach through the nightshirt. The unfortunate reason for his nighttime visit. He can’t, he _can’t. "D_ _amn_ it, what are you--”

“I am afraid I will have to disappoint you, my lord.” And Ciel has gone very, very still in Sebastian’s grasp, the pupil of his uncovered eye blown wide in the dark. He tries to let go of Ciel’s nightshirt, only to find that the fabric has torn in his hands. Sebastian is composed, his voice does not shake. “Please,” he repeats slowly, an echo from weeks past, “punish me as you see fit.”

Sebastian’s master is a chess prodigy, a shrewd strategist, ruthless in his execution. He is a fussy child, unrelenting and unrepentant. “You’re starving,” and his pretty voice is just a bit hoarse. He has shifted back onto Sebastian’s thighs, and the torn nightshirt has been unwittingly hiked up around his hips, the hard lines of his cock in full view. “That is why you are acting in this manner.” He grows more confident, and more vindictive, the more he speaks. It is entirely captivating. “Does it make you hungry, Sebastian?”

It is such a shame that he is entirely wrong.

Sebastian’s smile must look pitiful in the dark, for Ciel’s displeasure is tangible before he even speaks. “I am sorry. I seem to have lost my appetite.”

His master strikes him, then.

It’s a clean hit, it makes a clean sound that echoes around the room and immortalizes itself in Sebastian’s memory. It’s a clean hit and Sebastian hisses on the impact, shivers and draws Ciel into him. _Anything you see fit to give me, anything at all, but especially that--_

Ciel grows frustrated in his grasp, mouths curses into his neck, grinds himself down furiously on Sebastian’s cock, but there is no release to be found for either of them tonight in this room. The vicious minutes of his anger roll past, and at the end of it Sebastian is left with an exhausted child in his arms.

They say nothing to one another the rest of the night. In the morning Sebastian will return Ciel to his own bed, but for a scarce few hours after midnight Sebastian is permitted the luxury, just this once, of his sleeping master curled up uneasily against his chest.

 

                    **x.**

Sebastian has not been requested to his master’s bed tonight, but he strips off his shoes and jacket regardless. _Stay with me, until I fall asleep._  Well, Ciel has been feigning sleep for the past half hour, and if Sebastian were a better man he would not take that as permission. The mattress dips under his weight, and Ciel doesn’t move at all, not when Sebastian leaves his gloves on the pillow and not when he slips between the blankets fully clothed.

“I had a dream about you,” Ciel breathes into the pillow when Sebastian draws too close. Sebastian wonders if he has the bitter taste of sapphire and silver on his tongue, too, like he’s swallowed something he shouldn’t have and rotted from the inside.

“A good dream, I hope.”

Ciel does not stop him, when his fingers creep under the hem of his nightshirt. He allows too much. It feels rather inevitable, rather sad, than gratifying. “I don’t recall giving you permission to touch me.”

“You have an excellent memory, my lord.”

Sebastian strokes him methodically, base to tip, and Ciel does not move nor vocalize nor do anything at all. The boy Sebastian loves is laid out glassy-eyed at his side, dying or already dead. He is somewhere else, in the cage or on the altar or in the fire, and Sebastian squeezes the base of his cock like a reprimand, thumbs over the head as an incentive. “Stay with me.”

The boy who is not Ciel Phantomhive comes to in startling clarity, looking equally debauched and as though he might be sick. He is perhaps less beautiful like this, on his back and helpless. He moves as little as possible, won’t look at Sebastian, so tense he might break, and in a moment of pity Sebastian leans over him to capture his name on the boy’s mouth before it can be uttered aloud.

His mouth tastes like the milk and honey Sebastian had brought him, with the cold afterthought of silver. And if he releases Ciel before his orgasm, then this too is an act of mercy. _"I have acted out of turn."_ A whisper against his lips, sapphire on the tongue. Sebastian has done something unforgivable. _"P_ _lease punish me as you see fit, master._ ”

“Yes,” Ciel agrees, and when his cold hand curls around the back of Sebastian’s neck, Sebastian sees a ravenous flash of hunger cross his face like a stolen trick of the light.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](https://wagandea.tumblr.com/) | [twitter](https://twitter.com/celestewritings)


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